


The Second Touch

by fettuccine_alfreylo



Series: Taste and Touch [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Cunnilingus, Dom!Molly, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Face-Sitting, Female Ejaculation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Molly is a squirter, Past Drug Use, Roleplay, Smut, The Abominable Bride spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:25:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5644060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fettuccine_alfreylo/pseuds/fettuccine_alfreylo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel of sorts to "The First Taste" but can be read as a standalone. Sherlock steals something of Molly's and uses it for a bit of 'me' time, she finds out, and shows up at his place to teach him a lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [channyfaith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/channyfaith/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Channy! This was going to be entirely PWP feat. "Hooper", but then FEELINGS happened, so...yeah. Hope you like it!

“Need anything from the store while I’m out?”

Sherlock turns over in bed and blinks up at her. He’s stayed the night again. Her flat has been his favorite bolt hole as of late, ever since the… _incident_ on the jet and his subsequent withdrawal. Molly doesn’t ask questions. She knows he relapsed again and nearly killed himself with an overdose but she isn’t furious this time. She hasn’t yelled at him like John has, coddled him like Mrs. Hudson, or made uncomfortable heartfelt speeches like Mycroft. It’s a bit unsettling to see her so calm but compared to everyone else, her company is still very welcome.

“Cigarettes,” he yawns.

She places a cup of tea on the end table. “Nice try. How about…shampoo? Deodorant? You look…” She takes in his disheveled appearance. “Not good.”

“I’ll just use some of yours again.”

She processes that for a second then nods her head. “Fine. I’m running low on both, anyway. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

He watches her go, waits in bed for five minutes once she’s closed the front door (he’s done this so much he can time it) and then he goes to that little box in her closet where he knows it’s hidden. The photograph.

It’s a cast picture of a university production of Victor/Victoria. If he ever knew the plot of this musical he’s since deleted it. Even so, it doesn’t take a genius to get the general idea of what it’s about. It’s all there in the title, and Molly stars as the title role in this production. She’s front and center of the cast with a big smile on her face, not a day over twenty-two, wearing a suit. She's never told him about her interest in theatre - why would she? - but he can imagine well enough what she looked like, strutting across the stage. 

Sherlock sighs to himself. He really should stop doing this. Boundaries and all that. Molly’s lectured him enough times about going through her things. She’d be appalled if she knew he’s done this more times than he cares to count. But he can’t help himself. He’s an addict, after all. If he can’t get his hands on one drug, he substitutes something in its place. Heroin for cocaine. Nicotine patches for cigarettes. Wanking to this photo instead of having Molly. Because he knows he can never have her again. The first time was more of a fumble in the dark than anything else and he’s hurt her too much since then. On top of that, she hasn’t given any indication in recent memory that she still wants him in that way. Finding out the object of your desire is a lying arsehole of a drug addict will do that to you, he supposes.

So he does as he always does. As with any drug, there’s a certain ritual that goes along with it. He goes into her bathroom. Locks the door behind him. Sets the photo down on the bathroom counter, reaches for the box of tissues. Then finally, he touches himself.

The orgasm hits him so hard this time that he doesn’t realize the predicament he’s in until he’s already left the bathroom: Molly’s come back. He can hear her clattering away in the kitchen.

“Sherlock?” she calls to him.

He runs back to her bedroom as fast as his legs can carry him, locks the door, and puts the photograph back where it belongs. When he straightens up, heart beating furiously in his chest, there’s a knock on the door.

“Hey. I was halfway to the store when I realized I forgot my wallet. You okay?” she asks.

“Just changing!” he calls out.

He has really, _really_ got to stop doing this.

**o0o**

After narrowly escaping what could’ve been a hellish experience, Sherlock decides it’s time to go back to Baker Street for awhile. He still sees her occasionally at Barts but bothers her only when necessary. So it comes as a surprise when she shows up two weeks after he spent the night the last time. Wearing his coat. It’s so big on her that she’s swimming in it. It’s a bit odd that she’s wearing it but it pleases him all the same. Some possessive, primal instinct left over from the dawn of man, no doubt.

“The door was unlocked so I let myself in,” she greets him. “You forgot your coat and gloves at my place, by the way.”

Sherlock stands from his seat and watches her pull off her scarf. Her hair is slicked back and fastened at the nape of her neck in a chignon. Yet the borrowed clothing and the new hairstyle aren’t the only things that are different about her. Her face is clear of any makeup, even powder or mascara.

“I have other coats,” he says.

“I know.” She approaches him steadily. Her posture, he realizes, is one that he himself uses when he interrogates suspects. Shoulders back, legs spread in a confident stance, head held high. It’s a posture meant to intimidate.

“Do you?”

“Yes, Holmes. I do,” she says, nodding her head once. He startles a bit at the lower register she uses to address him.

“Molly?” he questions. She’s continuing to advance on him, coming closer, and he unconsciously takes a step back. _Damn_.

“It’s Hooper.” Her voice is even lower now, and she’s even closer.

Sherlock swallows. “What are you–?”

She places a gloved finger over his lips, effectively shutting him up. “ _Quiet_.”

She steps back and takes the coat off. It pools around her feet and that’s when he realizes – _her feet_. She’s wearing a pair of black leather Oxford shoes with a cap toe. They’re similar to his, but they aren’t YSL. Dolce, maybe. A posh brand, certainly. But that’s not all. His eyes travel up, categorizing what he sees. Men’s narrow leg trousers – also Dolce. He has a few pairs himself. A mainline white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled back to the elbow, and… _Christ_. She’s wearing a waistcoat. It’s dark grey like the formfitting trousers. It suits her. The entire ensemble suits her. _Very_ well, he admits.

“What is this about?” he asks.

She smirks, the left corner of her mouth quirking up. “You’re the genius here. Think.”

Comprehension dawns. _Oh_. She _knows_. She knows about the photograph. And somehow, she knows what he’s used the photograph for. He would ask her how, but from the way she’s staring at him, he doesn’t think he’d get a word in edgewise if he did. Instead he nods, trying (but failing) to keep the color from rising to the surface of his skin.

She points to his armchair. “Sit down.”

He immediately does as he’s told.

“Do you make it a habit, Holmes, of going through other people’s things?”

Sherlock considers lying, but one look from her and he knows he shouldn’t even bother.

“Sometimes.”

She peels off her – _his_ – gloves as she nears him again and drops them to the floor. Her nails are dark red. They're so at odds with the rest of her look yet so damn alluring, he can’t help but give a small gasp of surprise.

“You like these.” It’s a statement, not a question. She sits down on the edge of the chair and leans in close, running her pointer finger down his chest. God, this is the first time she's touched him in this way since their last encounter and that was years ago. He can smell her. She’s wearing cologne. Spicy, woody, fresh. _Men’s_ cologne.

Sherlock grits his teeth and nods. “Yes.”

“I can tell.” Her finger stops just short of his belt and she pulls away. Sherlock groans low in his throat. _No_. She can’t leave. She can’t tease him like this. She’s finally here, finally wants him again, and he’s so desperate for more of her he can hardly stand it. So he does the only thing he can think of; he grabs hold of her tie and _pulls_.

Her lips meet his and he kisses her fiercely, pouring all the effort he can into it. All the words he can’t say aloud...all the apologies. His hands find her hips and he pulls her even closer until he can feel the warmth of her cunt pressed against his erection. Just as they’re getting into the thick of it – Sherlock’s snaked his hand between them to unbuckle his belt – she breaks the kiss and grabs him roughly by the collar of his shirt.

“Molly?” he gasps, blinking up at her.

She tightens her hold until it’s difficult to breathe. His cock throbs in his trousers. Christ. _What the hell is happening_?

“It’s _Hooper_ ,” she seethes. She loosens her grip a bit and he sucks in a breath. “And you don’t call the shots here. Think you can just pull me by the tie and I’ll do your bidding? No. That’s not how this works. Allow me to enlighten you.” Swiftly, she unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants and trousers down his legs. He moves to help her, but she slaps his hands away. Next she unbuttons his shirt, exposing more and more of his chest with every touch. Only when he’s stark naked does she stand and step back, her eyes roving over his body. “Bedroom. Now.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to protest, to ask what she’s planning to do, but he knows it’ll be more trouble for him if he does. Not that he’d mind the trouble, if that little spot of breath play was any indication…

“ _Holmes_. Bedroom. Go on. Get up, go into your bedroom, and lie down. I’ll join you momentarily.”

He stands, steps out of his trousers, and makes his way to his room. He can feel her eyes on him every step of the way.

She makes him wait longer than expected, to the point where he’s squirming fitfully on the bed like some randy teenager when she finally joins him. To his delight, she’s still wearing the waistcoat and tie. Her shoes, trousers and dress shirt are gone but she’s changed into something even better: lacy knickers and black stockings, the latter of which are attached to matching black suspenders hugging her waist. Or perhaps she didn’t change into the lingerie at all. Perhaps she wore all of this under her trousers to start. The very thought sends a shiver up his spine.

“Losing your patience?” she asks, reaching up to loosen her tie. Her voice is still lowered and gruff. It’s fucking with his head, this mixture of masculine and feminine, and he wants _more_.

“Just a bit,” he breathes.

She smiles and he catches a glimpse of Molly, not Hooper. “Time to tie you up, I think.”

He struggles a bit as she wraps her tie around his wrists but it’s completely for show. He is thoroughly enjoying himself and she is, too. The hitch in her breath as she steps back to observe her handiwork tells him all he needs to know.

“What do you want with me?” he asks quietly. She hasn’t explicitly told him that she wants him to play along, but he’s never been one to shy away from a bit of roleplay. Memories of their first time together come back to him and he smiles. Yes. Roleplay is _definitely_ his area. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she purrs, climbing onto the bed. She arches her back to show off her arse and leans forward until her breasts are spilling from the waistcoat. “I want you to say you’re sorry.”

“For what?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“For taking something that is mine and then using it to cum like the filthy slut you are.”

He doesn’t have to fake his embarrassment; the blush that spreads over his body is completely real. “I always put the photo back where it belongs. Every time.”

“How courteous of you.” She rakes her fingernails down his thighs. It doesn’t hurt him. On the contrary, the stinging sensation makes his cock twitch against his belly. He sucks in a sharp gasp of air and she smiles again. “D’you know how you can make it up to me for being a nosy bastard, Sherlock?”

Of course he knows, but pretending he doesn’t is much too fun. He shakes his head and bites his lip. “Clean your bathroom, where I…where I touched myself?”

She leans down, pressing kisses to his thighs. “No. Guess again,” she murmurs between each one.

“Make your bed? Organize your–” He stops talking when her hand wraps around his cock. Slowly, she moves her fist up and down, squeezing tighter when she moves back up to the tip. Sherlock clenches his eyes tight. He can already see stars.

“Go on. Tell me how you'll make it up to me. You haven’t gotten there yet,” she continues. She thumbs the moisture beading on the slit of his cock and he yelps.

“Sherlock?”

“Use me,” he growls, his hips bucking up on their own accord. “Use my body to make yourself cum. Any part of it. My fingers, my face, my cock. Just… _fuck_ me, Hooper.”

She gasps and he opens his eyes to look at her. Her pupils are dilated and she’s breathing heavy. He’s said the right thing. Of course he has. He hasn’t always been able to read her well, but he’s eager to make up for lost time in any way he can.

“What are you going to do, Hooper? Are you going to sit on my cock and ride me until my eyes roll into the back of my head? Or do you want to sit on my face and make me taste you? Hm? What is it? You can have me any way you want.”

She grins when he mentions the second option. She must remember what he did the first time they were together. “Sit up and scoot your back to the headboard,” she orders.

He does this eagerly, not needing to be told twice. She stands on the bed and walks her way up until she’s directly over his head.

“Knickers, Molly,” he gasps, forgetting himself for a moment. He’s not the one in charge here. She does as he says anyway, pushing her panties to the side, revealing the bare, glistening skin of her cunt to him. She’s shaved. Shaved for _him_. The rational part of his brain sees fit to scold him that he shouldn't even remember she doesn't normally shave; that he shouldn't remember that small patch of curls between her legs. But he doesn’t pay the rational part of him any mind. Instead he groans deep in his throat and motions with his head for her to sit all the way down, burying herself in his face.

She hasn't done this - letting someone taste her - since their last time together. He can tell. She's incredibly sensitive. Her arms shake the headboard as he laps at her center. She cries out softly and trembles every time he drags his tongue against her clit. If he wasn’t enjoying the hell out of himself just now, he might even be angry. _Why_ has no one touched her this way? _Why_ has no one tasted her the way she deserves to be tasted? Idiots, the lot of them. Especially Tom. 

“S-Sherlock, I’m…I’m close,” she whimpers, tangling one of her hands in his hair.

He nods and increases his pace, flicking his tongue against her clit until her entire body goes taut as a bowstring. Moisture fills his mouth and he swallows it greedily, but Molly gives a yelp and falls back down onto the mattress before he can taste any more of it.

Her face is bright red from embarrassment. “I’m sorry – this never happens when I'm with someone! Only by myself...”

“Shh, Molly. It’s perfectly natural. Untie my hands, will you?” She avoids his gaze but nods, reaching behind him to loosen her tie. Once his hands are freed he pulls her into his lap. “Taste me,” he whispers, running his lips over hers. She hesitates for a moment then finally gives in and kisses him back, wrapping her arms around his neck. When they part they’re both gasping for air and she’s grinning ear to ear.

“I never knew I could do that with someone else. I came close the last time we...you know. But never again!”

“First time for everything,” Sherlock murmurs, unbuttoning her waistcoat. He takes her nipple into his mouth and sucks hard.

“Mmm. What about a second time?” she asks.

He lets go of one nipple with a pop and moves to the other, grazing it with his tongue. When he stops to look up at her, her eyes are heavy lidded and her mouth is parted. She’s perfect. She’s perfect as Hooper, and she’s perfect as Molly. Perfect as both. “Right now, if you’d like.”

“ _God, yes_.”

He lifts her by her hips and positions her right above his cock. She sinks down slowly, taking him inside inch by agonizing inch. Once she’s fully seated she begins to ride him. He pistons his hips to match her movements, sliding inside of her each time at a slight angle to induce another slippery orgasm. It doesn’t take her long to reach it and when she does, she spasms around his cock, squeezing it until he comes with a shout.

**o0o**

He holds her to him as they come down from the high. She must know he’s vulnerable, she _must_ , because she doesn’t say a word to him; she only strokes his hair and kisses his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs at last, against her skin.

She laughs. “I knew you’d been sneaking that picture for awhile, Sherlock. I’m not stupid.”

“No, not that. Though I am sorry for that, too. Boundaries aren’t really my forte.”

“No, they’re not. Hopefully this taught you a thing or two.”

“Yes, it did. Well done, Hooper.”

“Anytime, Holmes.”

Sherlock sighs, tracing patterns on her back with the tips of his fingers. “I'm sorry for avoiding you after what we did, that first time. For ignoring you. I’m sorry I've disappointed you. I’ve done it before and I will likely do it again. I have a problem, Molly. I self-destruct.”

“I know.”

“And you still want me, in spite of that?”

She squeezes him tighter, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I’ll always want you, Sherlock. I always have.”

“But you want more – more than I think I can give. Marriage, a family. I’m not enough, by myself.”

She pulls away slightly and cups his face in her hands. “You are more than enough, Sherlock. More than enough.”

He ponders her answer long after she leaves the bed and goes to the bathroom for a wash. Long after she kisses him goodbye and heads back to her place for the night.

**o0o**

Months pass. They grow closer than ever before. She’s there for him when he relapses again. She’s there for him when he reaches a year of sobriety. Through it all, she’s there for him, and he begins to understand that what she said before is true. He’s enough for her, and she’s enough for him. When they're together - eating fish and chips, watching telly, or reacquainting themselves with each other through touch - it is enough, _they are enough_ , and that is all that matters. 


End file.
